The morning sun burnished the city with a shiny, bright glitter the next morning, but Michael kept his head down. The streets were full of potholes filled with dirt, not concrete. That would never be tolerated in the States, he thought absently. At the same time he knew his analysis of Havana’s road conditions was just a way to avoid the storm of confusion washing over him.
His instinct told him to get in touch with Walters back in the States, but he was shrewd enough not to trust it. He needed actionable intel before he proceeded. And the truth was he had nothing. He didn’t really know Walters; his grandfather had made the connection. All he knew was that the man had been CIA and was now private. Working for a concern that wanted the map for commercial reasons. Walters wouldn’t be concerned with Michael’s personal issues. He might not know about them.
But the man who’d put Walters and his grandfather together might. Was that the man Perez believed died in Angola? The only other person in the world who, according to Perez, knew he was Michael’s father? Who was that man? How had he managed to connect them? Was it a benign or sinister motivation? The man had to know he and Perez would figure out their connection. Was he counting on that? Was he hoping to double-cross Walters and Tony Pacelli? Whoever this man was, he had to know Michael wouldn’t kill his own father, especially when he’d just discovered him. Wouldn’t he?
Michael ran a hand through his hair. Too many questions, too few answers. The bottom line was that Michael didn’t know who to trust. He sensed Perez wasn’t lying. There was no reason for him to. But if his father—he had a hard time thinking of Perez that way—was telling the truth, it meant his mother and the man he’d called father for thirty years had lied to him. His grandfather, too. They had all kept secrets from him. For decades. And that, Michael wasn’t sure he could ever forgive.
A watery breeze, carrying away the day’s heat, brushed their faces as he and Carla took a walk that evening. But Michael was still weighted down by his thoughts, and he ignored the gathering crowd of musicians, prostitutes, and people with their hands out.
“You are quiet,” Carla said.
Michael looked over. How could he tell her his world had imploded? “How was your day?” he asked instead.
“Like all the others.”
They continued to walk. Dusk threw a soft mantle of purple over the bay. Waves smacked against the rocks. Two or three lights, fishing boats probably, blinked through the darkening water. Suddenly Carla stopped. Before Michael could react, she grabbed his hand and pulled him down over the seawall. She crouched down on the rocks, forcing him to do the same.
“What is it?” Michael asked. His pulse was pounding.
Carla put a finger on her lips and pointed. Above them a group of men in blue shirts, dark pants, and what looked like berets with tassels approached from the opposite direction. Police. As they marched past, Michael could see they were not in formation, and their voices were boisterous. They were laughing, clowning around, leering at the whores. Feeling no pain.
Michael waited until the thud of their footsteps was gone. “What was that all about?”
Carla planted her palm on her chest, as if to slow her racing heart. “One never knows with La Policía. I panicked. I am sorry.”
“What’s going on?”
She went to a spot where they could climb back over the seawall to the Malecón. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
Despite the heat, an icicle of fear prickled his skin.
She hesitated then blurted it out. “Juliana—you remember. My upstairs neighbor…”
He cut her off. “The one—who’s—who is sick?”
She nodded impatiently. “She told me the CDR knows you’re American.”
“Who is the CDR official?”
“An old woman. She lives next door. It’s her job to know everybody’s business.”
“How did she find out?”
“How does anyone know anything in Cuba?”
Michael nodded as if he’d expected it. “It was bound to happen. You and I—we haven’t been making a secret of my presence. Juliana is a prostitute, desperate for money. She probably told the old woman. She—”
Carla cut him off. “Maybe yes, maybe no. But that does not matter. If they find you… I do not want to think what will happen. To us both.”
Michael glanced at the seawall, then back at Carla. “How long before they send the security police?”
“Maybe one or two days. They will arrest me for harboring an enemy of the state.” She paused. “What they will do to you, I have no idea. They will assume you are—what do you call your intelligence service?”
“CIA.” Michael extended his hand and pulled her up over the wall. Together they climbed up the rocks back to the pavement. “I will go. I should never—”
Again she pre-empted him. “I invited you, remember?”
He looked at her. “But… what are you going to do?”
“I have been thinking. I will go to Santiago de Cuba. To my family.”
“Are you sure that’s wise? Won’t they come after you there?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I cannot stay home. And I cannot go back to the clinic.”
Michael gazed at this fiery woman whose spirit hadn’t been crushed by the hardship, the poverty, and the sickness she confronted every day. He remembered how, when they met, she’d faked a sprained ankle to get him out of trouble. To “resolver” was second-nature for her. He admired her resilience, her ingenuity, her fatalism in the midst of danger. A danger that he had caused. It occurred to him that this was the first time he had ever felt this way about a woman. He took her hand, and they resumed their stroll.
“So…” he said, “it would seem we both have reasons to leave Havana.”
“Have you completed your mission—whatever it is?” she added acidly.
“The reason I haven’t told you about it is precisely because of this. I did not want to put you in a compromising position.”
“It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?”
“I agree. It’s time I told you my story.” As they walked he told her everything: why he’d come to Cuba, what his mission was. It was dark now, but someone had lit candles on the rocks, and Carla’s expression was wide-eyed and at the same time knowing. When he told her his target had turned out to be his father, her hand flew to her mouth. A salsa beat thumped close by. It ended as Michael finished his story.
“So, when my contact discovers I walked out on my mission—”
“You have made that decision?”
“How can I kill my father?” He hesitated. “It’s strange, you know? The man I thought was my father, Carmine DeLuca… he hated me. I never understood why. What I had done to provoke it.” He tightened his lips. “Now I understand.”
She inclined her head. “But Miguel, if you do not complete your mission, what are you going to do?”
“I want to get to know my father. But I need to tread carefully. Part of me thinks this is a fairy tale. The other part of me suspects it could be a set-up.”
“I do not believe in fairy tales,” Carla said.
He looked over. “Nor do I.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then, “Miguel, it is clear you’re involved in things I know nothing about. And I do not want to. But family—that I do understand. And family must always come first.”
He felt his jaw clench. “You think so? My mother kept the truth about my family a secret over thirty years. She has been living a lie. And forced me to do the same. I don’t call that putting family first.”
“She was trying to protect you.”
“She was selfish,” he snapped. “Trying to paper over the past, pretend it never happened.”
Carla stopped, turned, faced Michael. “You have much to learn about women. If I had a child, I would do anything to keep it safe. Anything.”
“Yes, well, she failed.” He spread his hands. “I am about to be hunted by the security forces of two countries.”
Carla picked up her pace. “Terco como una mula,” she muttered.
Michael caught up to her. “Stubborn? Who is the stubborn one? You only have a day or two left of the life you’ve always known, and yet here you are, sauntering down the Malecón like you don’t have a care in the world.”
She didn’t answer for a moment. Then, “We are where we are supposed to be. We do what we are supposed to.”
Was this more of her Santería nonsense? Or wisdom? The breeze picked up, and Carla turned into it, letting it ruffle her hair. Despite their bickering, he was surprised at how natural it felt to stroll down the Malecón holding her hand. Like he belonged.
And with that came another insight that seemed to explain everything. Michael had spent his life as an outsider, eavesdropping on other peoples’ lives, literally and figuratively. Picking up crumbs of happiness when he could. He’d never been content. Now, though, despite the circumstances, or maybe because of them, he felt as if he was home. As if the pieces of an enormous puzzle were finally clicking into place. Was this destitute island the place he was supposed to be?